Scars
by nizziie
Summary: She was sick and tired of everything.But most of all, she was sick of her stepdad. She was sick of all the wounds and bruises. And the scars. Oh, the scars. Warning: Abuse and implied rape. Oneshot.


**AN: This was a feature article that I wrote for our school paper that ended up becoming a short story. So I thought I`d share it with you guys. I would love to know what you guys think. **

She walked through the dreaded corridors of the purgatory that is high school, head down and hair covering half her face, her shoulders hunched as if there was more to the burden that she was carrying than her worn-out bag and second-hand books.

She could hear harsh whispers of strangers as she walked past; feel their judgmental eyes burning a hole into her body.

She moved faster. She just wanted to get out. All of this was just too much.

_Well, at least no one tried to trip me today_, she thought sardonically.

"Hey Bella, I didn't know you had a thing for the handicapped."

_Don't fight back, don't fight back. It'll only make things worse._

"I mean, seriously. The idiot who screwed you must have been blind. Who would want to get into bed with you, fat ass?"

_Don't cry. Don't let them take what little dignity you have left._

"I bet you're wondering why no one's tripped you today. You see, we love you so much that we didn't want to risk that little demon child of yours."

_Get yourself out of here._

And with that, Bella ran stumbling out the school doors, trying to escape the jeers and laughter.

Bella walked home, wishing she would just get run over by a bus or attacked by a dog or something – anything. She was sick and tired of everything. Sick of her absentee mother. Sick of being overweight. Sick of throwing up after every meal, in the hope that maybe, if she got thinner, things at school wouldn't be so bad. Sick of the assholes in school. Sick of her teachers and the school's guidance counselor pretending to care. Sick of the smell of booze and weed whenever she got home.

But most of all, she was sick of her stepdad. She was sick of all the wounds and bruises. And the scars. Oh, the scars.

It haunted her to think that, eight months from now, she'll have more scars. Stretch marks, actually. After years of molestation, her stepdad wanted to go all the way to home base.

It all started when she was six years old, two weeks after her mother had gotten married to Phil. She finally thought she would get her happily ever after, like those pretty girls in the fairytales. She finally had a daddy; someone who would love her and care for her when her real father couldn't. She had no clue where he was or what he looked like.

But then, one night, Uncle Phil walked into her room. She was half-asleep. He hugged her and kissed her good night, like he had done so many nights before. But, unlike all the other nights, this was more than "fatherly affection". Uncle Phil's hands started roaming to other places of her body…the sort of places her mother always told her to cover up.

At first she thought it was okay. Her mother was never around, so she was hungry from attention in any way, shape, or form. Uncle Phil was just fulfilling his role as a stepdad, showing her the affection that she never got from her mother.

Or, that was what he convinced her to think.

Bella only realized that something was wrong when she entered high school, and started hearing all these stories about child sex offenders and pedophiles.

She did try to fight back, she really did. That's when the beatings began.

Every night it got worse. Phil just seemed even hungrier every night….even more stoned…even more wasted. Soon, he started cutting her. To him, her blood was an aphrodisiac.

But no matter how much he hurt her, no matter how tortured she felt, she kept trying to fight him. It brought a sliver of satisfaction to her to be able to get in a kick or a bunch or a bite…anything to make her feel as if she had an ounce of strength. Anything to make her feel like she had some sort of backbone.

There were times that she felt as if she was simply on autopilot. Times when she felt numb, like a non-entity. She had no friends, no real family, no adult to turn to. Everyone just classified her as a freak. She never talked in class, never tried to make any friends. She had nothing to live for – except maybe the child that was beginning to take form within her.

This child…this child that had caused the harsh words of her peers early in the day. She could clearly hear the gossiping teenagers in her school…see them looking down on her…feel the shame that they loaded onto her shoulders. Unfortunately, today wasn't one of her autopilot days. Every word and every glare pierced into her like shards of ice.

_That means tonight's going to be hell._

Looking up, she saw that her feet had brought her to the place where all her scars had been formed – the place most kids her age called "home". A smile penetrated Bella's numb façade, thinking of the irony of that analogy.

As she entered the house, she was immediately bombarded with the stench of beer, weed, and God-knows-what. Dirty laundry was all over the place, a couple of pizza boxes by the couch were starting to grow mold, some half-drunk bottles of beer lay at random places within the house. It almost looked as dirty as Bella felt whenever Phil laid his dirty, greasy hands on her.

Bella hurried to the basement, grabbing what little food was left from the kitchen as she went. As she laid on her pitiful excuse of a bed, she started on her homework, guided by the dim light of the solitary light bulb in the center of the basement – her room. Her room, where she constantly cried herself to sleep…waking up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. Her room, where she had tried to kill herself numerous times…but never found the will to actually push through with it.

She tried to focus on her homework, tried to make the nonsensical numbers make sense. But, like every time she was left alone to herself, she was attacked by those painful memories.

"_Just stop! Please stop. Don't do this."_

"_Shut up, little girl! Now, on all fours."_

"_No! I won't let you do this to me again."_

_CRAAACK! The sound of his slipper coming in contact with her bare butt._

"_Now, do as I say of you won't be able to walk in the morning."_

"_No…please…"_

Each night it was always the same. She tried to resist at first, but then he'd hurt her. So she just endured the beatings and violation. All of it had become such a blur that she can't even distinguish one night from the other. The pain was all the same, anyway.

How many more nights like that? How many more bruises? How many more beatings and insults and wounds? How much more blood and suffering?

How many more scars?

There was that word again, "scar". Seven months from now she will have more scars: proof of his complete violation of her being. Proof that her life really is a living hell.

_You have to put a stop to this, Bella. It will only get worse. And when this child will come out of your womb, he or she will also have to face the cruelty it never deserved – the cruelty_you_never deserved. Don't let another child face the torment you had to go through._

Something snapped in Bella. Tonight, she would get back at him. Tonight, she would fight – _really_fight. After tonight, she will no longer be pushed around.

And if she died – a sickening feeling rushed through her veins at the thought – well, at least she died trying. Then this child would at least not have to live through the cruelty of this world.

So Bella got up from her bed and cautiously crept out of the basement, just in case Phil was already in the house. She checked to see if the coast was clear, then ran to his room.

_Now, where does he hide his knives?_

Phil never left the knives in the kitchen. He didn't want Bella to have any means of protection.

Bella frantically searched his room. Under the bed, in the pillowcases, in his drawers…nothing. She had given up hope – until she spotted a loose floorboard. She made a beeline for that loose floorboard. It was her only shot.

_Bingo._

Right there, amongst bags of marijuana and, of course, Phil's trusty bong…were several knives. They gleamed, and Bella felt as if this was God's way of sending here a savior. She picked one up, raising it to her face for a closer examination.

_Oh crap._

There, reflected in the shining steel of the knife, was Phil's reflection.

"WHAT THE _HELL_ DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING, BITCH?"

Bella turned around, but was a second too late. Phil had already lunged for her throat, knocking the knife out of her hand.

"Were you trying to kill me, little girl? Thought you could pull a fast one on me, huh? Well, I'll show you fast…!"

He quickly turned her over, unto her back. He was already ripping her clothes off her frail body.

"Did you really think you could bring me down? YOU? Ha! You wish, you little slut!"

He was grinding his hips against her, making her blood run cold in fear at his obvious state of arousal.

"I'm going to teach you a lesson in being submissive…"

His hands and lips were attacking her, violating every inch of skin that he had known so well in the past ten years.

Bella tried to push him off of her, whimpering in protest and fear.

"Oh yeah, I know you like it baby. I know you're just playing hard to –_ARRRGHHH!"_

There was a knife in Phil's left thigh.

Bella pushed him off of her, and was half-way getting up when she was knocked to the ground by Phil grabbing her ankle.

She was frantically kicking and thrashing as he pulled her towards him.

"NO!...No!...No…"

"Yes, baby. YES!"

He was now on top of her.

"Now, let's finish what we started."

"Oh we`re about to," Bella said as she took the knife out of Phil's thigh, twisting it as she pulled.

Phil grabbed her wrist with one hand, pinning her down with the other.

_Almost there._

The knife was five inches away from Phil's chest. Only a few more inches and she would end this.

They struggled for a few more seconds. It seemed like hours to Bella. Her arms were sweaty, and Phil's hand was getting clammier by the second.

"Just give up, Bella baby. You know you can never wi –"

Bella's wrist had slipped through Phil's clammy hand. The knife had entered Phil's chest.

Phil clutched at his chest, his other hand balancing him onto the floor. His yellowish wife beater was already half-drenched in crimson.

Bella, still laying down on the ground, panting, looked over at the man who had slowly killed her bit by bit for the past decade, a smile of victory spreading across her face.

She was so consumed with happiness and her eyes were so filled with tears that she didn't see his arm snaking out to the loose floorboard and the flash of silver that streaked past as a knife entered her heart.

"Now that's going to leave a mark," were the last words of Phil as he lost consciousness.

**AN: Please review, guys! Positive AND negative reviews are highly appreciated. I need to really polish this before I submit it to our editor-in-chief. **


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